


All the Better to Bite You With

by Lecavayay



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Vampire, M/M, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-24 17:00:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14958542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lecavayay/pseuds/Lecavayay
Summary: Val's friends are fucking idiots.





	All the Better to Bite You With

1.

Val leaves Bowness’ office with gritted teeth, squeezing his right hand into a fist. The burn feels like fresh fire bubbling up under his skin and it adds to the already sour mood he arrived in, Finland having been the first team eliminated from the World Cup. He hopes Bowness didn’t see it, hopes he didn’t notice the grimace Val fought back as his solid silver ring seared through his palm.

He briefly considers heading for the fresh sheet of ice and pressing his hand flat against it until the pain is dulled.

“Here.”

Val isn’t sure what to make of the bag of ice being offered to him, or the person offering it.

“I’m finished with it and that blister looks gnarly.”

Val clenches his fist, hiding it. “I’m fine.”

The kid smiles and it’s _sharp_. “Okay,” he says, leaning over to leave the bag of ice on the bench next to Val.

He waits until the guy turns away, showing off the blue 36 on the back of his practice jersey, before picking up the ice and sighing in relief. The numbers don’t mean anything to Val, he’s probably just a kid in the first year of his ECL trying to make a splash. Val’s all but certain he’ll be on a plane back to Juniors before the week is up, hopefully having forgotten whatever it is he thinks he saw.

Because the thing is.

Val has been alive for many, _many_ years. He knows the rules and statutes of secrecy. He knows why they’re there and what the Elders think would happen if too many people found out about their kind.

Val still thinks it’s all a bit much, but he’s not a rule breaker.

 

2.

He’s not a rule breaker but he is lazy.

“You went as a vampire last year,” Steven complains when Val arrives at his house for the annual Halloween party.

“Bite me.” He snaps his fangs in Steven’s direction.

Somewhere to their left, a tuft of wild hair snickers into their drink.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Brayden says, swallowing down his laughter. “Just…bite me? It’s funny.”

“Are you even old enough to be drinking?”

He raises his middle finger as he downs the rest of his punch and Val crinkles his nose at the bits of red dye staining the kid’s upper lip.

Tonguing at the corner of his mouth, Brayden winks.

Val abruptly turns and winds his way toward the kitchen in hopes of finding the bottle of St. George Baller he left the last time he was over.

Instead he finds a contingent of idiots playing flip cup on the dining room table, spilling cheap beer all over the plastic tablecloth, bright Halloween orange. He fends off Vladdy’s attempts to have him join his team and dodges an elbow to the face as Kuch gets violently competitive. Alex and Shu crow in delight as Bish gets his cup turned over for the win.

Val slips away from the mess to scan Steven’s collection of alcohol, crouching down to move the Crown Royal and Disaronno out of the way. His bottle should be in the very back of the cabinet, far left corner...

“Looking for this?” Brayden is leaning against the fridge, swinging his nice bottle of whiskey.

Val stands, sweeping his cheap Party City cape behind him with a flourish. “Yes, thank you.”

Brayden tries to hide it behind his back, as if Val couldn’t move faster than his eye could follow and snatch it right out of his hand.

Playing by the rules gets Val chest-to-chest with the rookie, one arm wrapped around his waist, fangs dangerously close to the blood of his neck. Val licks his lips. Something about Brayden tempts him.

“You smell like death.”

“I smell like Stefano Ricci Royal Eagle Gold,” he spits back.

Brayden narrows his dark blue eyes but lets Val take his bottle.

“How did you even find this? I’ll tell Stammer his rookie is nosing around his things.”

“I’m not his rookie,” he says, straightening his Superman costume. “I have a good nose, could smell your Royal Eagle Gold all over it.”

Val knows when he’s being mocked and is a big enough person not to take the bite. The _bait_.  

Brayden walks away with a smile and Val does not examine the way his muscles look covered in blue spandex.

He does however find a proper glass to pour himself a very large drink.

 

It’s a few hours later when Val finds himself cornered in the living room by a sloppy Steven, eyes glazed over with alcohol. “Lemme touch ‘em.”

Val snorts. “No.”

“You can’t wear _fangs_ and not let anybody touch ‘em.”

“I’m not wearing fangs.”

Steven laughs. “I know I’m drunk but your teeth are not that pointy.”

“You are very drunk but I wouldn’t lie to you, these are my real teeth.”

“Why aren’t you drunk?”

Val sips his drink, smiles around the rim of the glass. “Because I am an adult.”

“Ha _ha_.”

Val fiddles with his cape, making sure it’s covering his shoulders like it should. Steven remains unmoved however, drunk eyes fixated on Val’s mouth.

Rolling his eyes, Val relents. “Just don’t touch the point. They’re sharp.”

Steven immediately presses the tip of his index finger to the sharp point of Val’s left incisor, recoiling when it breaks skin. A drop of blood blooms there.

Val’s nostrils flare.

“Okay, let’s get you a Band-Aid and another beer,” Brayden says, appearing out of nowhere to steer Steven away.

Val doesn’t appreciate the glare he gets as Brayden leads Steven to the bathroom. He’s perfectly capable of not sucking his teammate’s finger into his mouth.

At least not without asking first.

He’s not a _monster_.

 

3.

He is a little tired, though. Keeping a secret for a hundred years is a lot of effort. It wears on him.

“I think I’m going to tell the team,” he says into the phone as he lounges on the beach just before sunrise.

Ilari laughs at him. “You’re not a rule breaker, Valle. And you know the Elders will find out.”

“What if I don’t tell them, then? I just…make it very obvious.”

“How obvious? You’re not going to set yourself on fire or something, right?”

Val sighs, drags his fingers through the sand and little seashells that have washed up on shore. “I will not set myself on fire, little brother.”

“Just because I took a whole 72 hours longer to turn does _not_ make me younger.”

“It does so. It’s in the rulebook.”

“There isn’t a _rulebook_.”

“Tell that to the Elders,” Val snaps. “I have to go. I have practice.”

“Please don’t set yourself on fire.”

Val hangs up on him, which was more satisfying back when phones didn’t all have delicate touch screens. He lays in the sand just a bit longer than he should, tempting fate as he scampers back to his car when the sun starts to color the sky on the horizon.

 

“Johnny and I are getting some people together to head to the beach,” Pally says, still dripping sweat fresh from the ice. “Supposed to be a nice day.”

“I’ll pass,” he says, settling in his stall to untie his skate laces.

“Come on, we need six a side for volleyball.”

Val runs a towel through his hair and down his neck. “I would literally burst into flames if I stepped foot on a beach right now.”

Pally scoffs. “Yeah, right. You are the tannest of us all. You’d be fine.”

“It’s fake. I’m naturally pale year round. Pale as death.”

“All the more reason for you to get real sun! It’ll be fun.”

“I would die,” he deadpans.

Pally frowns.

“I’ll play,” Brayden says, already out of his jersey and shoulder pads, sweaty hair flopped down over his forehead. “I love the beach.”

Val is shocked by the picture his brain provides: Brayden, bronzed from the sun, running around in the sand like a puppy.

“Perfect! See, the rookie loves us.” Pally doesn’t stick his tongue out but Val imagines he wants to.

Val’s friends are fucking idiots.

 

4.

Cally raves about the best chicken parm he’s ever had the entire flight to Chicago, avidly describing the way they pan fry it and then smother it in the best tomato sauce on the planet to anyone remotely awake.

Val hasn’t tasted real food in a century and keeps his eyes shut, feigning sleep as the plane begins its descent. The last thing he wants to do is sit in a garlic-infested restaurant while Cally drools over a piece of chicken.

So of course, at the prompt hour of seven o’clock, Val is sitting at the far end of a table with the rest of the team. He can feel the garlic seeping into his cotton button-up, clogging his pores. It’s disgusting.

He orders two fingers of a single malt whiskey and ignores the fried bits of cheese and calamari and breadsticks. He waves the waiter away when he asks for his order and quietly sips on his drink.

He feels Brayden’s eyes on him, has somehow developed an uncanny sense of it in the last few months. Val stares him down over the edge of his glass, feeling unreasonably powerful when Brayden blinks first, turning away to join Jo’s conversation.

Cally finally notices he’s not eating once the table is full of food, each plate offensive to Val’s entire being. “Are you not eating?”

Most of the team swivels their eyes to him. As if they’ve never seen him pass up a meal before.

“I’m allergic to garlic.”

“No one is allergic to garlic,” Cally argues.

“Actually um,” Brayden starts. “I am? I’ve got an EpiPen for it.”

Val narrows his eyes, disbelieving.

“Well shit, why didn’t you say something? I feel like a total dick,” Cally says.

“It’s fine! I usually just tell the server and they take care of it. It’s no big deal.” He shrugs, pushes a tomato around his plate with his fork.

“I prefer to starve,” Val whines.

“You can share my plate,” Brayden offers earnestly. “If you want.”

Val would rather eat an entire bulb of raw garlic. “No thank you.”

Brayden cocks his head, a soft smile stretching his lips, teeth just barely visible. Val finishes his drink as the rest of the table goes back to whatever it was they were talking about earlier.

He tosses down a twenty as he stands. “I’ll see you idiots in the morning.”

“I can go with you,” Brayden offers, halfway to his feet.

Val grips his shoulder and sits him down. “Finish your food.”

He doesn’t miss the way Brayden shivers.

 

5.

Val’s eyes snap open at the first sharp knock on his door. He begs whoever it is to leave.

The clock on his bedside table reads 2:21pm, which is practically the middle of the night for him. So rude. And on an off-day, at that.

Another knock gets him up and rushing for the door, curses poised on the tip of his tongue.

They die in his mouth when Brayden smiles up at him through the peephole. “What are you doing here?” he asks, opening the door.

“Video games?” Brayden shows him the offering of games and his own custom controller. “Bish is parking the car and I think Boyler’s heading over.”

“Do you have any friends your own age?”

Brayden makes himself at home on Val’s couch after kicking off his shoes by the door. “I’m more mature than I look.”

Val used to use that line on people when he was younger, cursing the slow aging of his face. Brayden doesn’t make any sense. “I’m sure you are.”

Bish isn’t far behind, knocking a couple times before letting himself in. “I brought beer.”

Val takes the six-pack and shoves all but one in his fridge, popping the top off and handing it over to Bish. “I think Brayden is looking for an adversary.”

“Not up for the challenge?”

“I was napping.”

Bish laughs on his way to the couch, immediately arguing that the older player should get dibs on their NHL team. Val listens to Brayden try and convince him they should go by highest points.

“Just flip a coin,” Val interjects, flopping down onto the lounger part of his couch. “No bickering.”

They end up both playing as the Lightning and Val closes his eyes, listening to the fake crowd cheer.

 

Boyler does arrive a half hour later with his own offering of beer, which he sticks in the fridge himself. “What are all these?”

Val looks over to see him holding up a glass jar of dark red liquid. “Blood,” he replies honestly.

“Yeah okay, but seriously did you make your own sangria or what?”

“Why don’t you try it?”

Brayden jams the restart button and calls for Boyler before he can get the lid off the jar. “We just finished a game! Come take my place.”

Val sighs, settling back into the pillows.

 

+1.

“What are you trying to prove?” Brayden asks after Bish and Boyler have begged off.

The sun’s gone down and Val feels much better under the cool light of the moon, picking up the empty bottles left behind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Brayden stops him from walking away, one palm flat against his chest. His chest where a heart hasn’t beat for a hundred years.

Brayden smiles. “So, you’re a vampire? That’s cool, I’m a werewolf.”

Val’s eyes widen. “You’re a _what_.”

“Oh man, you’re just as dumb as everybody else,” he says through laughter. “I thought the garlic thing would’ve tipped you off for sure.”

“I thought you were just being nice!”

Brayden’s smile widens. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.”

“You’ve already seen mine.” Val is connecting the dots all the way back to Halloween, back to maybe the first time he ever met Brayden properly. That first day of camp. Bowness’ silver ring.

“Those were your show fangs. I want the real deal.”

“If I show you, I’d have to kill you,” Val says, haughty. “So, no.”

“That’s so old school.” Brayden huffs. “It’s not like I could take a picture and show anyone.”

“That’s a myth.”

“No it’s not.”

“You think I don’t know what happens to vampires in the face of a camera lens?”

“So I can take a picture?”

“ _No_. Because I’m not showing you anything.”

Brayden smirks, eyes gleaming, before a deep growl fills up the space between them and his teeth sharpen to points. Val retaliates immediately, dropping the full length of his fangs with lips pulled back in a threat. He straightens his shoulders, looms.

It only takes him a moment to realize his mistake. “Fuck you.”

Brayden slips easily back into his boyish looks, his smile soft and bright, any trace of wolf tucked away. “It’s kinda hot.”

“You’re giving me a headache.” Val distinctly ignores the heat trickling down his spine.

“Can vampires even get headaches?”

“It’s a metaphorical headache. I’m kicking you out.”

Brayden heads for the door on his own. “Okay, but listen. The full moon is coming up in a couple weeks and I think it’d be awesome if we spen--.”

Val closes the door in Brayden’s face.

 

Ilari laughs endlessly when Val tells him he’s pretty sure he has unknowingly acquired a werewolf friend.

Perhaps _friend_ is the wrong word but it’s close enough.

Val makes the executive decision to leave out the part where he sometimes imagines what it would be like to kiss Brayden. He’ll cross that bridge if it ever comes.

Most days he dreams it does.   


End file.
